Finding a Way to Remember
by Ciara in cotton socks
Summary: Angelina has always hated hospitals of every description, and Muggle hospitals are the worst of them all.  But now that she's in one, the only thing she's worried about is helping her husband to find the perfect way to remember the man they both loved.


**A/N: This piece was written for Heart of Spellz's "Tears pour down my cheeks" Competition on the HPFC forum. As the name suggests, the idea was to try to make the challenge issuer (as well as any other readers who may have chanced upon this one-shot) shed a tear. I usually go for more depressing fare, but I'm hoping this one will involve some good-tear shedding!**

**I always want to improve, so reviews and constructive criticism are always welcome.**

**Enjoy,**

**Ciara**

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Angelina Weasley had never liked hospitals, let alone Muggle ones. She had been on edge every time she had ended up in the hospital wing at Hogwarts, and her experience visiting Katie at St. Mungo's was one that she remembered with something resembling terror. To Angelina, hospitals were synonymous with weakness and death, two things which Angelina had had quite enough of in her life. At least in St. Mungo's and the hospital wing, however, she had the comfort of magic, a security blanket of sorts. She would have given anything to be in one of those places right now, regardless of the consequences, but neither of them had the facilities she required for her current situation. As a result, she was now lying in a small bed with itchy polyester sheets in Devon General Hospital, dozing fitfully. It went against her every instinct, but eventually exhaustion had overcome her and she had succumbed to fatigue.

Her sleep was far from peaceful however, plagued by dark shadows and nightmare images to stop her heart. For the umpteenth time since being admitted, she woke with a jolt and bolted upright, hands clasped protectively to her stomach. Disorientated, she stared wildly around at the unfamiliar, bland walls. Her chest rose and fell in a frantic rhythm at the sight of the empty cot next to her bed.

"Don't worry dear," a cheerful voice said, and Angelina became aware of a plump, middle-aged Muggle nurse standing by the window, arranging congratulatory cards on the sill. "They've moved the little tyke down to the maternity ward to let you get some rest."

"Oh," said Angelina shakily. "Oh, that's... that's good. C-can I see him?"

"Of course, dear," the nurse smiled. "I'll take you as soon as I've finished putting your cards up. You know, it's the strangest thing, one of the interns says he could have sworn an owl dropped a couple of them off. Madness, eh?"

"Madness," Angelina muttered, almost to herself, with a weak smile. The nurse beamed in return and began to unfold the lightweight wheelchair tucked away in the corner of the small private room but Angelina shook her head. "I can walk, thank you."

"Lovely," the other woman replied cheerily, in a tone so reminiscent of Dolores Umbridge that it sent a shudder down Angelina's spine. She shook it off however, eager to get on her way. She had been admitted almost fourteen hours ago now, after her waters broke at a Quidditch match. She had been cheering on Oliver in his first-team debut for Puddlemere United against the Cannons, much to George's chagrin, when it had happened and had been in such intense agony upon arrival at the intimate little hospital that the Muggle Healers (doctors, she thought they were called) had given her something to stem it. Angelina didn't know quite what it was, but it had given the room a pleasantly blurred aura. She had only held her new son for the briefest of moments before dropping off into weary slumber. Now she wanted nothing more than to see him again. She fidgeted tetchily as the middle-aged nurse forced her into the soft pink dressing gown Ron and Hermione had bought her for just this occasion and grudgingly allowed the woman to jam the matching slippers onto her bloated feet. She made her way down the white hallways in silence as her companion twittered jovially, excitement bubbling in the pit of her stomach. When they finally came to a stop outside the maternity ward, Angelina felt her heart leap even further as she spotted a familiar figure standing amidst the dozens of clear plastic cots. After muttering the briefest of 'thank you's to the nurse, she ducked inside.

"There's my boys," she said softly, making her way over to them slowly and laying her head to George's shoulder. Her husband wrapped her in a one-armed cuddle but kept his gaze fixed firmly on the tiny white-clothed figure sleeping in the crib next to them. He truly was a most beautiful specimen of a miniature human being, with latte-coloured skin and a surprisingly thick cluster of dark auburn curls. Angelina was certain that his soft snuffling snore was the most perfect sound she had ever heard. Her excitement spilled over as she took him in her arms and held him to her, pressing his tiny, supple cheek to her own as gently as she could. A contented sigh fluttered through her weary lips. "He's flawless, isn't he?"

George didn't reply, simply continued staring at the tiny form wrapped in his wife's loving embrace. Reluctantly, Angelina tore her gaze away from her sleeping son and focused it on her husband's haunted blue eyes.

"Do you want to hold him?" she asked softly. George shook his head.

"You spend some time with him," he replied, earning himself a probing stare from Angelina.

"Are you sure?"

"I- uh, I can't," he said sheepishly, glancing with poorly disguised longing towards the door as he raked a trembling hand through his overlong red mop. "I... I just can't."

Angelina wasn't quite sure what tipped her off- perhaps it was something in his tone, perhaps the haunted expression she knew they had both worn as a scar from the Battle of Hogwarts for so many years- but suddenly realisation overwhelmed her. She cradled her son in her arms and tickled his chin with gentle fingers. A smile spread across his small face, causing his mother to mimic the expression. She tucked him up to her shoulder carefully and pressed her fingers to George's face, tugging at the corner of his mouth in an attempt to pull it into a lopsided smile.

"I was thinking," she said slowly, glancing at him from beneath feathery lashes. "If it's alright with you, that is, that we could... could name him Fred."

She saw a flicker of the old pain wash over George's face and for a moment felt remorse. She knew that pain, having carried it for so long herself. A tear welled up in the corner of George's eye and her hand trembled violently as she used her thumb to smudge it away.

"What do you think?" Angelina asked hesitantly. George smiled at her, but it was a taught, laboured thing that she didn't recognise.

"I think it's a lovely idea Ange," he sighed, his voice hollow. "But I don't think it's right for him."

"What do you mean?"

"I know it's stupid," George whispered, sounding almost ashamed of himself as he glanced quickly at the sleeping baby. "But I-I thought he'd look... look more like him. Like me, I suppose, and I know that was never going to happen but for some bloody stupid reason I thought my son would look... look like _him_. And he doesn't, and I'd prefer to keep that name for my brother than for a perfect little baby who looks nothing like him."

Angelina stared at him, bewildered. She shook her head sadly and held the tiny bundle in her arms up in defiance.

"You don't think he looks like him?" she demanded. "Really? You don't think this little angel looks like the boy we both loved? Because I do. I think he looks so like him, and yet so perfectly different to him. You wanted a carbon copy of Fred, just like him, but this is better. Don't you see? I see you flinch every time you look in the mirror because you see _him_, and it kills me. And you want to have the exact same pain when you look at your _son_?"

"Ange, don't, that's-"

"Sure, he doesn't look exactly like Fred. But that's OK. That's OK, because he's not _that_ Fred. He's a different person, George, and all the more perfect because of it. But the best part is that even though it won't be like looking at a ghost when you hold him in your arms, you'll still see Fred. Look!"

She held their son up in front of George's eyes and stroked his smooth curls tenderly.

"There," she murmured. "You see it? When the light catches his hair like that? You get a flash of that flaming red hair, don't you?"

"I... yes," George breathed, his voice hitched with uncertainty. Angelina ploughed on.

"And here," she pressed, brushing her son's cheek with affection. "If you look close enough, you'll see-"

"Freckles," George finished, his voice stronger now, and he reached out with a trembling hand to the fine brown-sugar dusting spattered across the upturned snub of nose.

"And watch this," Angelina said triumphantly, an excited grin splitting her face. She tickled her son's chin again, more persistently this time, until a tiny gurgling laugh trickled through his cherubic lips. She kept it up until the tiny eyes prised themselves open and the laughter bounced off the walls, sending a chill down both her spine and George's. She smiled knowingly at her husband, who extended his arms gingerly.

"C-Can I?" he asked, his voice laced with excited hesitation. Angelina beamed and carefully passed the perfect little parcel from her arms to his. George seemed wrong-footed at first, but then became more comfortable. Relief washed over his features as the small boy cuddled into his chest eagerly. Angelina nodded encouragingly and he took this as his cue to tickle his son's chin like she had. The infant responded immediately with a surprisingly loud burst of laughter, and when he opened his eyes again they were so piercingly blue that George's breath caught in his throat. Angelina laid her head on his shoulder once more with a burning, knowing glance into her husband's eyes. He stared into the blue depths of his son's eyes and nodded fervently. "Hello Fred," he whispered, tasting his new son's name.

"Fred," Angelina nodded contentedly. She reached out languidly to allow baby Fred to curl his minute fingers around her pinkie and brushed her lips to George's. She wasn't sure how long they stood like that, a huddled trio in the middle of the maternity ward of a Muggle hospital she had never even heard of before today, but one thing of which she was certain was that she couldn't remember the last time she had felt this happy, or seen George so full of life. And as they traipsed back down the corridor when the sky outside darkened to inky black, George cuddling their son close to his chest with fierce protectiveness, Angelina knew that somewhere Fred Weasley Senior was smiling down on their new family.


End file.
